


baby can you see through the tears

by jacktheminatureslayer



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Hurt/comfort fic, I was bound to write something like this, Kinda, Louis runs, M/M, No Apologies, Smut, break-up, everyone else is sort of there, everything is tied down by really bad London weather, except I'm apologising anyways because I'm probably going to hell, harry stays, sort of, this is a very sad fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 01:35:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2904479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacktheminatureslayer/pseuds/jacktheminatureslayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis runs; Harry stays; rain hits everyone equally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	baby can you see through the tears

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who just got his heart shattered into a million pieces?
> 
> Title from Lana Del Ray's "Blue Jeans"
> 
> (alternatively titled: this is what happens when you listen to Lana Del Ray straight for several hours)

Harry’s had enough. He can see it. He can see Louis’s feet jumping up and down from where he’s standing across from him at the table. He can sense what’s about to happen and, yes, he watches it play out before him like it has a million times before.

Louis turns and leaves.

Harry’s not sure who started the argument this time, but it always ends the same. They always seem to come a full circle despite how many times they discuss it. When push comes to shove, Louis flees.

He’s certain he should feel numb by it all by now, but he’s not. Still feels like someone’s squeezing at his lungs as he watches his boyfriend walk away from him so easily. Instead of collapsing on the ground and sobbing into the rough carpet, Harry decides to pick up his fork and finish his dinner.

The restaurant they picked for their “date night” tonight is some fancy Italian place far away from their flat. Louis wanted to “explore” and venture out of their usual restaurant pickings. Of course he probably didn’t think he would be leaving Harry here so far away from home, but that’s how this evening has turned out.

Harry’s sickeningly grateful that they got the table in the middle of the floor. He’s not so lonely when he’s surrounded by the clinking of cutlery and the low murmur of chatting guests. When the waitress returns, her dark eyes flicker at Louis’s empty seat, but, thankfully, she doesn’t comment. Just leaves the dessert they had asked for not ten minutes ago in the middle of the table.

He reaches for it and begins picking at it with his pasta stained fork. Opening up the chocolate cake to let the fudge flow out of the center. He doesn’t eat it. Just picks until there’s nothing left but a crumbled, gooey mess of a dessert. It had been Louis’ turn to pick the dessert tonight.

Once he finishes, he pushes the plate away and robotically sips at his wine while watching strangers converse around him. There’s a woman stroking a man’s hand, an older gentleman tucked into a lasagna, two young adults laughing over a large pizza, and a small family screaming and making a fuss in the corner.

The waitress clears her throat and he turns back to see her eyebrow raise. “Did you want the cheque now or…?”

“Now is okay,” Harry replies and slips his hand into his pocket for his wallet. Luckily he has a habit of grabbing it before leaving the flat or else this conversation could have been more awkward.

She leaves the cheque and busies herself with the elderly man’s table. Harry pulls out one of the ten cards in his wallet and idly taps the hard plastic against the table before placing it down and draining the last of his wine. She returns and takes the card with a nod. While she’s away, the toddler from the family’s table begins to wail. Harry’s heart tugs at the shrieks and he turns to watch the parents try to calm the little thing down. The child squirms and slips out of it’s place at the table, running away from his chasing parents. His own blood chills with the scene as the parents catch up and pull him back. What are they going to do now? Glue him down? Hold him there? It’s only a matter of time before he leaves again. Harry wants to laugh at them because they obviously have no control over their own son.

But he doesn’t. He contains himself and watches his waitress return with the bill and card. “Thanks for your service. Would you like a box for your--” she cuts herself off when she sees his mutilated dessert.

“No thank you,” Harry replies with a dazzling smile. One that shows both of his dimples. She blinks at him, but nods and ducks away, tripping on her way to the back.

He sighs and pockets his wallet before leaving. He can still hear the toddler’s cries of protest as he shuts the restaurant’s door behind himself and lets the chilly air hit him.

The summer is long gone. Has been for months, of course. That’s how seasons work. A few months of hot, warm, cold, warm, and then hot again. Of course in London there are more periods of rain than there are of sunshine in any season, but Harry’s grown immune to it. The rain is his friend.

_“For lonely people, rain is a chance to be touched.”_

He stands there for a moment, appreciating the hazy lights of traffic and the soft sounds of Friday night. He wonders if Louis took their car or if he snatched a cabbie. He seemed more upset today, so he probably took the car. A conscious act of payback that he probably thinks Harry deserves and Harry is...well he’s tired. Physically and emotionally drained.

The young couple from the restaurant accidentally bumps into him as they pass. They giggle out apologies and stumble down the street together, arms wrapped around each other to keep themselves warm. The rain still hits them.

With a calming breath of air, Harry moves down the street and signals for a cabbie. One pulls over and the tires beat rainwater onto his boots. He ducks into the vehicle and gives the man his address wondering what he’ll find there or who he probably won’t find there.

His hands shake when he passes the money onto the driver and stumbles out into the night. The rain has let up and a small fog cuddles into the corners of his building. Silence always comes with the fog, Harry is never really sure why that is. It’s like animals, humans included, don’t want to disturb the gentle presence of the misty friend. Either way, the atmosphere is eerily quiet as he walks into his building and takes the lift to his floor.

The building’s heater must be working again because once he steps foot in the corridor a warm wave hits his otherwise chilly joints. Harry shivers in appreciation and pushes forward to his own front door.

It’s a habit now, pushing his ear to the door to hear for any signs of life. It’s not like he’ll hear bagpipes playing or something loud and absurd like that, but he hopes for...something. It’s silly. Shaking his head, Harry fumbles with his keys and unlocks the door.

The room is dark and quiet. It takes everything in his willpower not to turn around and kit at Zayn’s, Niall’s, or even Nick’s place. He won’t because he’s an adult. He should be able to stay in the flat all by himself for a night. He’s done it before.

He moves forward, ignoring the rest of his flat in favour of the guest bed near the back. They invested in a bigger space for when friends visit, but friends hardly visit anymore. The guest bed is sadly the most used bed of the flat, despite the fact that their friends don’t visit, because it’s small and cosy and...Harry doesn’t like sleeping in the masterbed when he’s alone.

And he’s very, very much alone.

Stripping himself of every article except his pants, he climbs into the cool bed and bundles, willing his body heat to work its magic. After a few minutes, things begin to warm up and it’s nice. Would have been faster if another body was there.

Harry listens to the rain against his window until his exhausted mind lets itself rest. He tries not to think of where Louis is right now.

***

It’s a week later when his mum asks him the question. “I know this is going to sound awful dear, but have you thought of breaking it off with him?”

They’re at his flat exchanging stories of what happened the passing week. Harry’s found Louis’ favourite bottle of wine stashed away and they sip at it contently at the small dining room table. Harry tries not to talk too much about Louis, but apparently that’s worse than talking about him. He supposes this is due to the fact that most couples tend to talk about one another. He also supposes that they had at one point.

The day is a beautiful one, relatively speaking. He had woken up in the guest bed this morning to muted window light in his eyes. It was nice.

“I’ve been trying not to,” Harry replies, wincing slightly.

She reaches over and rests her hand on his. “I know,” is her simple response.

And of all his friends, family, and acquaintances, she’s the one that really can say that. That she knows, because she does. She’s been at this point with her past relationships, sure, but she’s also watched Harry and Louis’s relationship expand from the early stages when they were both in uni and struggling financially. Back then arguments were solved and ended with the two boys holding onto each other in bed.

Eventually his mum speaks up again. “Have you seen him?”

It’s probably mental that Harry doesn’t even flinch at this question. “He grabbed some clothes yesterday while I was at work. Left me a note.”

She frowns. “No, have you _seen_ him.”

This time Harry does flinch. “Not for a while.”

“Just think about that,” she whispers softly and squeezes his hand before getting up. “I think we could convince Gemma to get lunch with us. Shall we?”

Harry nods and stands up to follow her out of the flat. He pauses at his rubbish bin by the front door and shakily removes the note from his pocket before rereading it: _Went to Donnie. Back soon. - L_ and tossing it in. His mum smiles encouragingly at him when she catches his eye.

He tries to return the smile. It’s a nice moment.

***

It’s been more than a month since he’s last seen Louis and, well, he’s not sure what to do.

Separating seems more like the conclusion every day. Not really a solution, but the designated end that Harry can’t control. He wants to laugh at himself for thinking he’s ever been in control.

The moment he realises this is when he runs out of tea.

They keep the tea in separate “keep fresh” packaging that Louis had ordered online, so when he uses the last bits of it, he’s not sure what he’s been drinking for the last several months. He can’t go to the grocery center if he doesn’t know what he’s buying and, well, he doesn’t want to buy something else entirely.

He complains about this situation to Zayn. Of course his mate would ask the question, “What’s wrong with getting different tea?”

“I don’t want different tea,” Harry replies.

He can practically hear Zayn’s eyes roll so he adds, “Louis likes this tea too.”

“Louis bought that tea, of course he likes it. He probably got it off somewhere online. You know how he is.”

Harry likes talking to Zayn these days, because there isn’t a hesitation or pitiful tone in the conversation. He talks to Harry like he isn’t worried about him falling apart. It’s nice.

“Besides,” Zayn continues, “what’s wrong with getting something new?”

“I want this tea,” Harry whines like a child.

“Well, you can’t have this tea,” Zayn says simply.

It hits Harry hard. He mutters an excuse and hangs up shortly after that and shuffles about the rest of the day avoiding the “tea problem” altogether. He sleeps in the guestroom after changing the sheets a third time.

***

By the three month mark, Harry’s numb.

He doesn’t cry in the shower anymore or begs his mother to stay the night with him. He’s accepted the fact that Louis won’t return his messages or phone calls and has made the executive decision that they’ve come to their end.

He starts with little things.

Pulls one or two photos off the wall, throws away his paperwork from the office desk, unplugs his laptop charger from the wall, etc.

It’s only when the walls are striped bare, the office empty of his work, and every other inch of the flat is emptied that Harry finally goes into the master bedroom. He’s only gone in there for clothes once. He had packed everything he owned into the guest bedroom after the two month mark, because going in there daily always left him feeling disgusted for hours.

The smell hits him first. It always does. Parts laundry detergent, cologne, and something stale. It’s not Louis’ smell, it’s Harry and Louis’ smell which makes it all the worse.

He sets a timer (his mother’s idea) and grabs as much as he can before it goes off. Once it does beep at him, he leaves and shuts the door behind himself.

***

Harry overheard a conversation once about how well he’s taking all of this. Like his relationship of five years should have made it so that he became broken when Louis left, but they don't know. They don’t understand. It was lost before it was ended. Louis was gone before he had left.

Now at the five month mark Harry had returned to the master bedroom. It’s not theirs anymore, it’s his. He’s been paying rent by himself for the last five months to prove it. The boxes of Louis’ things are waiting in the front room for Harry to ship them to Doncaster and it’s nice.

That night he joins his sister at the pub and meets a boy. He returns to the flat and falls asleep crying.

He’s not broken, just missing something that’s lost.

***

Louis returns by the eighth month mark.

He walks through the door in the morning while Harry sips his new tea. He pauses when he sees Harry, a look of combined terror and guilt. The thick silence crushes Harry- squeezes his chest worse than anything he’s ever felt before.

Louis is beautiful. He’s always been beautiful. He has long eyelashes that frame his sharp blue eyes, a head of lightly tousled brown hair, and just a petite body. It should probably hurt to see him. Most novels and poems say it hurts the first time anyone looks at their former lover, but it doesn’t hurt. He feels numb.

Harry’s the first to give into the torture of the silence. “What exactly is your definition of ‘back soon’?”

He watches as Louis’ legs tremble and knows it’s coming. Louis leaves again, tripping over the threshold in his race to get away.

* * *

 “Mum wants to know if you’re coming to family dinner next week at Gemma’s,” Harry states. Louis has finished his dinner. He always complained that Harry ate as slow as he talked. Harry maintained that he was actually enjoying his food, not inhaling it.

“Of course I’m going, Anne and Gemma would have my head,” he jokes and winks.

It’s not that he expected Louis to take it seriously, it that he had hoped he wouldn’t joke about it. Joking about going to things made Harry anxious, especially since Louis hadn’t been around that much this week. He bites his bottom lip and stares at his pasta, squeezing Louis’ hand from where he is holding it firmly on top of the table.

Their waitress comes over and smiles at where Harry’s gripping Louis’ hand. “Would you gentlemen like any desserts tonight?” she asks.

Louis’ eyes light up and he and the waitress chat about desserts for a while. He picks the lava fudge cake, something with a brownie texture and fudgey middle. Harry’s not paying too much attention, his thoughts are on how he can keep him here with him.

“But really Lou,” he finds himself muttering, staring intently into Louis’ eyes. “Promise me you’ll be there? At the dinner?”

He feels and sees Louis twitch a bit in his seat. He pulls his hand back, leaving Harry’s on the table, under the pretense of fixing his fringe. Harry straightens in his seat, placing his fork down and moving so that his feet are placed firmly on the ground. Louis watches with a continually frightened look in his eyes and Harry panics.

“Promise me, Lou.” He all but begs.

Another wave of fidgeting. “Haz, I already told you I’d be there.”

“Yes, but I want you to promise.” Harry reiterates.

“Why?” Louis asks and Harry’s stomach drops.

His eyes narrow. “Are we really going to have this discussion here?” Discussion is a light term for it, but he can see Louis already practically bolting from his seat. Keeping things light keeps him around longer.

Louis mutters quickly, “I don’t see why you need me to promise. I told you I will be there and I will.”

This is the moment in the “discussion” that Harry will say something nice. Flatter Louis and hope that he’ll promise or agree without too much fuss. Louis doesn’t like the implication that comes with promising. Always makes him upset and flustered.

Tonight, Harry throws caution into the wind. He moves his hand from where it lay waiting for Louis to pick it up again to the edge of the table. He grips it with all of his life. “Because you won’t be there,” he tells Louis.

That’s when it starts. Louis' fidgeting transfers down to his legs and they bounce and twitch moving the table with the movements. Harry clenches the table tighter, keeping from throwing himself at the boy to keep him here.

“You don’t trust me to be there.” It’s not a question.

Harry’s head drops. A single ringlet of a curl falls from his headband and touches his forehead while he grits his teeth. “You haven’t been around lately,” he tells the table, talking to Louis.

“I left you a note--”

“I know,” he interrupts, biting his bottom lip to keep from crying. “Notes don’t always cut it.”

Suddenly the Louis’ legs stop moving. He stands up in his chair and Harry flinches. “I’m not sure what you want from me.” He hears Louis say while his own eyes are trained on the table.

“It’s not that I want anything from you,” Harry responds.

There’s a pause before Louis says, “I don’t understand.”

Harry slowly looks up from the table and nearly pounces on him when he sees the confusion and hurt on Louis’ face. _Stay here!_ he wants to scream, but he knows it won’t help. At this point, nothing will.

“I want you, Lou. I don’t want something from you, I just want you,” he tries to explain.

Louis face hardens. “I’m sorry, but you have me, Haz. You’ve had me from the moment you sat next to me five years ago.”

_No I don’t. I don’t think I’ve ever had you._ “You’re always gone,” he whispers.

“I’m not sure what to do to convince you.”

_STAY!!!_ Harry wants to scream and he nearly does, but Louis turns and walks away.

His grip on the table falls and his body slumps forward. Exhaustion takes over.

* * *

It’s his last class of the day and Harry is more than a little late. He shouldn’t have had his new friends and flatmates keep him distracted for so long, but it really is his own fault. He’s the one that suggested a bonding game of FIFA after their introductions. Niall wolf whistles at him as he nearly trips down the stairs to get to campus and Harry responds with a crude gesture of the hand that sends Niall into a cackling fit of laughter.

Of course the social sciences building is the furthest away from his flat, Harry thinks, and by the time he sinks into the lecture hall, the class is a fourth of a way through. Not the best way to start the semester, but his professor doesn’t even spare him a glance. The bloke sitting next to him, however, is not even trying to hide his amusement.

A bit flustered and entirely embarrassed, Harry tries to ignore the bloke. That proves to be difficult. “Hey, are you alright?” his fellow student asks him, poking his arm.

Harry fidgets in his seat, but pointedly ignores him. He’s a bit grumpy and irritable from running all the way here.

“You’re all sweaty and smelly,” he adds to Harry’s displeasure. Sorry, he can’t exactly outsmart biology and natural bodily functions. He shuffles more in his seat to keep from snapping at the lad.

The lecture the professor has prepared is a drawl between course curriculum and class participation. It’s the same lecture every other professor has prepared for the first day of the semester and it doesn’t help that this professor looks dead on his feet. So sue him if he can’t pay attention when the bloke continues to fight for his attention.

“I think I should invest in a campus map. Nearly lost myself a few million times on my way here. Did you get lost too?”

Harry gives in and answers. “No, I just wasn’t watching the time.”

“So a watch for you and a map for me. M’name’s Louis Tomlinson.” Harry’s aggressor--Louis-- doesn’t hold out his hand for a formal shake, instead he pats Harry’s head and smiles.

Harry’s utterly charmed. He didn’t really plan on holding a grudge in the first place. He was just stressed from running against time. Besides, Louis Tomlinson is very fit - bordering on beautiful. He’s a mixture of sharp and curved edges--a perfect contradiction. His brown hair is tousled softly against his forehead, glittery blue eyes twinkling underneath his long eyelashes, and, well, he looks good. Even better when he smiles (his eyes do this crinkling thing that causes a weird stirring in young Harry’s stomach).

“Harry Styles,” he replies and beams.

The professor goes on to talk about tests and Harry tries to pay attention this time around, he really does, but Louis tosses a note on his desk top. With a quick glance at the professor, he slowly opens the note and reads: _Harry Smelly Styles, please tell me that you enjoy footie._

Harry has to dig through his satchel to find a pen and quite a few students glare at him as he tries to come up with a good response. Apparently he’s not fast enough, because he receives a harsh kick to his leg by Louis. Harry glares at the harmful feet and notices with surprise that the lad is wearing Toms.

He supposes this isn’t really creative, but he figures he doesn’t have much time before a second kick is delivered. _Louis Toms Tomlinson_ , he starts but frowns, crosses it out, and tries again: _Louis Tommo Tomlinson, you will be happy to know that I do enjoy footie._ He grins at his work and tosses the note back.

He watches as Louis mutters “Tommo” to himself and the professor dismisses the whole lecture hall. Everyone else starts to pack up and he becomes conflicted on what to do with his newly acquired acquaintance. Louis looks up with a start and tosses the note and a few other things in his own satchel. Harry’s only a bit disappointed (okay massively disappointed) that Louis seems to be in a hurry to leave. “Off to get a map?” he jokes.

“Nah, off to get you a watch,” Louis replies with a wink. What kind of sick humour does the universe have making Harry meet such a charming fit bloke when he’s all sweaty and disheveled. If he ever meets “Fate,” he’s giving her/him/it a swift slap to the arm.

They stand and walk out of the hall and building together. Harry observes as Louis squirms in his spot, his legs shuffling and twitching underneath him. It’s curious. “Well…” Louis trails and then shrugs before turning and walking away.

“I guess I’ll see you?” Harry calls after him. His own feet feel glued to his spot on the ground. A mixture of shock and disappointment keeping them there.

Louis’ head falls back and a flood of laughter echoes back to Harry. He supposes that’s a good sign and watches his retreating figure for a few more minutes before leaving and laughing to himself.

Louis Tomlinson is something else.

***

It’s raining and everything’s a disaster.

To Harry’s surprise, Louis doesn’t seem as buggered. “Come on, Hazza! A little rain won’t kill anyone.”

Yes, yes it will. It kills his whole plans of asking Louis out on a proper date instead of their annoying “study sessions” that ended as soon as the final exams finished. Annoying because he didn’t want his first kiss with Lou to be over a pile of textbooks in a packed library so he waited. Annoying because Louis couldn’t stay still for two seconds and had to bug Harry. Annoying because when all was said and done, Harry still had to study on his own to actually get vital information for passing his exams. Annoying because he didn’t actually care.

He mutters threateningly at the rain under his breath.

Louis elbows him and grabs his wrist. “And here I thought you were an Englishman,” he teases and pulls Harry out of the bakery and into the rain.

“I am an Englishman,” Harry responds still glaring at the stupid weather. Stupid weather that kills kindling romances.

Louis tuts. “You’d be used to such weather if you were a proper Englishman. See,” he lets go of Harry’s wrist and jumps into the nearest puddle. “look, I’m not melting.”

Harry huffs but his mood lifts when he sees water clumping in Louis’ eyelashes. He allows that the rain does, somehow, make Louis even more beautiful. The sharpness of his jaw and cheekbones are more prominent. “Fine,” he relents and smiles at Louis’ responding grin.

“Yay!” he cheers and skips to the park where Harry had mentioned going to after his shift at the bakery. Harry follows and skips with him once he catches up.

The park in the rain would be described by romantics as inspirational, especially as the sun peeks out from the corners of the clouds to create a heart wrenching scene: light bouncing from drop to drop. Harry isn’t a romantic. Well, he is, but not like that. He doesn’t notice how the pooled water glitters or how startlingly quiet everything is, allowing the soothing thrumming of rain drops to be the only sound. He does notice two things: everything is wet and Louis Tomlinson is gorgeous. So really, he thinks he has the romantics beat.

“So Harry Hazza Styles, what are we doing here?” Louis asks underneath a tree.

Suddenly, Harry isn’t grumpy, he’s nervous. The poisoning thought of “have I been interpreting this all wrong” comes creeping in and he rethinks every note passed, every smile, or lingering stare exchanged between them. He’s heard somewhere that once a thought is put in a head it can grow and infest. Maybe he just saw what he wanted to see?

Or maybe he should just stop watching Inception before going to bed.

“Erm,” he starts and Louis waits patiently. He looks curious and amused all at once and it’s mental that Harry can interpret the expressions on his face.

“Uh,” he tries again, but all he can think about is how creepy he’s been the past few months. Only a creep would know different expressions on someone’s face so well.

Louis saves him from embarrassing himself further and comments, “That’s okay Haz, you can tell me later.”

Harry nearly groans out loud at his own failure. It’s such a simple statement, really: Hey Lou, I’m kind of seriously infatuated with you. Will you go out to dinner with me sometime? He’s even been practicing saying it out loud to himself this whole week. He blames the rain. The stupid, stupid rain.

Louis chats as they walk back to his place. He talks about everything from his sisters getting into make-up to how weird Professor Cowell looked yesterday without a white t-shirt on. Suddenly, he stops talking and walking and Harry follows suit once he realises.

“What is going on, H? You’re silent and it’s infuriating,” Louis demands.

Harry relents after being kicked and simplifies his explanation to, “I hate the rain.” The rain is clearly the reason why he’s not brave enough to ask Louis out.

“You’re in a foul mood because you hate the rain,” he repeats.

“Yes.” Well, no, but...yes.

Louis frowns and turns away for a bit before turning back. “Well, we can’t have that. Do you remember that silly literature course I was in?”

“The one with the teacher’s assistant that smelled like dung?”

“That one, yes,” he pauses and scratches the back of his head before continuing, “Well, we studied this bloke, erm, Simon Van Booy? He said something memorable, I guess. It was raining that day before class so it really stuck with me: ‘For lonely people, rain is a chance to be touched’.” He fidgets a bit, legs twitching.

Harry smiles. Louis is really sweet, but normally him keeping himself and everybody else entertained takes precedence over this sweetness. Harry can’t help but feel giddy watching him confess something that is obviously special to him. His heart throbs with an overwhelming fondness as he reaches out and grabs Louis’ hand.

“Thanks, Lou,” he says sincerely.

Louis looks shocked by the action, but he shakes out of it quickly. “Do you still hate rain?” he asks quietly.

“Never.”

“Good, because rain is my friend.” He nods firmly before smiling and turning away. “Don’t catch anything sickly,” he shouts over his shoulder.

Harry watches him leave with a smile and a heavy heart, laughing at the absurdity of it all.

***

“Just call him,” Zayn says, throwing a pair of socks at Harry’s head.

Harry shakes his head. “No, I can’t ‘just call him’,” he argues.

“And why not?” his annoying flatmate asks.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

Because they don’t have a class together and he doesn’t have a proper excuse to invite him over anymore. He hasn’t talked to Louis since that day in the rain and it’s really starting to become unnerving. So, he shrugs off Zayn’s question and burrows further into his bed where he can hide from all things not-Louis.

Zayn scoffs, but leaves him alone. Probably to go bug Liam into letting him borrow a few comic books. They’re all the same. Everyone (friends and family alike) is bugging him about Louis and he just wants to scream “I know! It’s not like I haven’t been thinking about it every other second!” but he doesn’t.

Part of him feels somewhat betrayed that Louis hasn’t reached out to him. Silly, he knows, but aren’t relationships supposed to be a two-way kind of a thing? Two people working together? He feels as though he’s been putting in all the work for a while now.

“Harry?” Niall walks in and stands next to his bed.

Harry has two layers of quilts shielding him from his Irish friend. “Mmmph,” he replies.

He feels a poke. “Harry, you promised you’d play FIFA with me today.”

Harry ignores him and thinks of happy thoughts. Raindrops, roses, and soft Louis kittens. Louis is a good name for a kitten. They’re both ridiculously cute, cosy, and independent. Also, Harry doesn’t have a kitten, nor does he have Louis. Those thoughts became depressing fast.

He feels a weight crash down on him and he cries out and tries to get away. “Nuh-uh, no more of this weird business. I want, scratch that, need to beat you in FIFA!” Niall picks Harry up, still bundled up in one of his quilts, and carries him to the frontroom.

“You stink, Hazza. How long has it been since you’ve bathed or showered or even looked at soap?” Niall questions and places Harry on the sofa.

Harry responds by hissing and wiggling away. He’s always prided himself on his eloquence.

“Harry,” Niall tuts, “Calm down and play the video game.” He talks slowly and digs the control into Harry’s fisted hands. “Good lad.”

The game starts and eventually Harry does get into it, laughing and cursing like he would any other Louis-filled day. He has Niall beat and they elbow each other in their haste to win. FIFA is taken seriously here in this flat. Niall made sure of this fact.

Zayn wanders over and cheers them on and even plays some himself. He beats both of them easily and the three of them are piled on the ground when Liam walks in. “Is this an orgy?” he asks.

Zayn laughs and grabs Niall head, smacking his lips against his forehead. “You joining?” Zayn asks Liam.

“Harry and I have been trying to plan one for months!” Louis grumbles and Harry’s stomach drops.

“Tommo!” someone says.

“About bloody time,” someone else mutters.

Harry’s focused on breathing properly. The four others arrange themselves into the room and start chatting about. A kick tells him that he’s still sprawled on the floor, so he moves and cuddles next to Niall on the sofa, carefully avoiding Louis’ staring.

A new round of FIFA starts and things start to get intense. Alliances are formed, battles are avenged, and wars declared. The great thing about playing anything, really, together is that conversation is kept to the minimum save for a curse word or two (or fifty). It’s a bonding experience, sure, but they don’t need to exchange secrets for it to be memorable or worthwhile.

Hours later people start dropping. Zayn leaves first to call his mum. Liam gets grumpy after losing. Niall has a guitar lesson that he can’t miss. And then there were two.

Louis joins Harry on the sofa and nods his head at the telly. “Another round?”

Harry nods and they start. It’s silent other than the spamming of buttons and the swift flickering sound of rubber sticks on the controllers. It’s tense, but FIFA is hardly to blame for that. Both Louis and Harry are skilled at the game (he’s always been good at the logistics of footie, never the actual sport) so it lasts longer than it would have with their other mates.

Louis clearing his throat makes Harry jump and miss a goal. “Did you get my note?” Louis asks, still staring at the telly.

“Note?” Harry asks and frowns. “What note?”

With a deep sigh, Louis drops his controller on the ground and turns to Harry. He grabs Harry’s controller and tosses it away. Harry faces him, he feels his face contorted in confusion.

“I was gone this past week, but I’m back,” Louis says slowly.

Harry feels relieved and hopeful. So he wasn’t avoiding Harry, he was just gone in general. “Where did you go?” he asks in honest curiosity.

Louis ignores this question and asks his own, “Did you not get the note then?” He stands and walks to the door. Harry watches as he ducks down and searches the ground. With a delighted cheer, he comes back to Harry and hands him a blue post-it note.

It reads: _Will be gone this week --Tommo._

Harry starts, “Okay…”

“Okay what?”

“So you left a note.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you just call?”

“I have too many post-it notes.”

“Oh.”

“Harry.”

“Yeah?”

Louis leans forward and captures Harry’s lips. Harry stiffens in shock and Louis pulls away and frowns. “What’s wrong?”

Harry blinks a few times and grabs Louis’ face. The face that he’s been practically obsessed over ever since he met him. The face that drives off his nightmares and haunts his dreams. The face of a man with the biggest personality Harry has ever met. The face that he pulls back to his own for a proper first kiss.

Louis pulls back first and crinkles his nose. “Harry Smelly Styles,” he says and Harry laughs.

***

They’ve been going on dates on and off for a month which mainly consist of snogging. They did talk a lot and learn a lot about each other, but snogging is the prefered activity.

It was when Harry came home from his first yoga lesson that he saw a small yellow post-it note hanging on his front door. Frowning, he grabs the note and reads: _Haz--I’ll be gone for a few weeks. See you soon._

Honestly, Harry always felt that Lou was the most ridiculous(ly lovely) person he has ever met and the fact that he chose to leave post-it notes instead of calling or texting Harry about him leaving just adds to the list of why he’s so ridiculous. So, Harry decides to be the less ridiculous of the two and gives him a ring on his mobile.

Zayn’s in the frontroom reading and Harry can hear Niall’s snores from where he stands as he swipes through his contact list for ‘Tommo’. The call goes to voicemail. “Hey Lou, I got your note this time around, I guess. I’m just wondering what’s going on? Do you need my help with something? Erm, right okay...call me back.”

Zayn looks up from his book. “What was that about?”

Harry passes him the note and takes a seat on the sofa. Zayn’s eyebrows shoot up and he passes it back. “And he didn’t call you?”

Harry shakes his head.

“I mean...that’s a bit strange. Even for Louis,” he comments and then returns to his book.

Harry can’t help but agree.

 

The “few weeks” turns into three months. It hurts.

 

Harry stops calling and begging for him after a month because his phone was taken away from him by his mum. Apparently his moping was too much for his flatmates to stand and they went to the drastic measure of calling his mum. She came up from Chesire, stayed a week, chatted and talked him through it, and left with his mobile.

Sometimes he overhears his flatmates discussing him and Louis. They chat about how surprised they are by the whole situation because of how “head over heels” Louis appeared to be by Harry. They ask themselves if there had been a major falling out argument that they missed. They ask the questions that Harry has been traumatised with since the start and it’s strange hearing them come from someone else’s voice. It makes the situation more real. Harry cries himself to sleep after he hears their voices die down.

By the end of the three months, Harry has pulled himself together. He’s getting ready for the next semester by purchasing books, being a great flatmate by purchasing groceries, being a better son by calling his mother more often, and...it’s nice. He even gets asked out on a few dates, some he can’t bring himself to do, but others he enjoys. Nothing massive, but everything helpful.

 

The flat is empty of his flatmates for the night as Harry prepares to go on his third non-Louis date. So far the people he’s been set up with have been rather dull. None of them pull out cheeky comments about the restaurants or order something weird just for the hell of it. They don’t tease Harry about how he “eats as slowly as he talks” or demand picking out a dessert. It’s not their fault and he really shouldn’t resent them for being themselves, he knows this, but Harry hasn’t been in the “right” mindset in a while. Three months to be exact.

He’s managed to get one boot on his foot without ripping his skinnies when he hears a knock on the door. He drops his second boot in surprise because he had thought that he was meeting up with his date at the movie theatre, so the knock is unexpected and startling. As he trips to the door, the knocking becomes an insistent pounding, and Harry is ready to tell whoever it is to fuck off when he opens the door. It’s Louis. Of course.

He’s too shocked to say or do anything. Just stares at him. From the pictures and cluttered memory of their time spent together, Harry can confirm that Louis looks the same. It’s like he never even left and it’s a bit overwhelming.

“I bought you a watch,” Louis says and raises his hand to wave a black wrist-watch at him.

Harry stares at it for a bit in awe. He raises a shaking hand to grab it. He should be yelling or something, shouldn’t he? But Louis looks so...Louis and he can’t help but let him into his flat, so he steps aside.

Louis beams and ducks in. “You look nice,” he comments.

Harry shuts the door and closes his eyes. He counts to twenty before turning to Louis. “Why didn’t you call?” he asks.

“I left you a note,” he answers with a shrug. He’s tapping his foot loudly on Harry’s hardwood floors and it’s distracting.

Harry bites his bottom lip before making up his mind and pulling the note from his back pocket. He’s a bit embarrassed that he kept it on himself, but...he needed something solid of Louis to keep around. Louis smiles when he sees the familiar scrawl of his handwriting and nods. “Yes, that’s the note.”

Harry needs a drink. He drops the note and marches into his kitchen. He hears the light steps of Louis following. “I don’t understand,” Louis admits from the threshold.

Harry ignores him and searches the cabinets for the emergency whiskey supply (Niall is Irish), but his shaking hands are causing him a lot more trouble than he’s willing to admit. Louis’ becoming more and more fidgety as the seconds of silence roll.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Louis slowly start to back out of the kitchen. It makes him feel sick. “You didn’t call,” he says, finally rounding on him. “You left a bloody post-it note and never called me back.”

Louis’ legs are twitching horribly, so Harry steps forward and holds onto his wrists firmly. “You also said you’d only be gone for a few weeks. It’s been three months.”

“Three months falls under the ‘few weeks’ category,” Louis defends, tugging at Harry’s hold and shuffling in his spot. “I didn’t specify the amount of weeks.”

“Well, shit, sorry I can’t read your fucking mind! It would have helped if you just answered your bloody mobile, wouldn’t it?!”

Louis flinches and trembles, his eyes are locked on the door of Harry’s flat.

“Why did you go?” Harry asks the question that has been the most painful, digging at the temples of his head and creating massive headaches in the middle of the night. He can’t help but wonder if it’s something he did. Was he too forward? Did Louis finally realise that he’s something of a creep? Was there anyway he can fix it? His head frequently thinks these questions at any aspect of his day. It pains him worse than he’s willing to admit.

Louis’ body stops trembling and his head turns to look at Harry. Harry releases his wrists from his grasps and that’s when Louis pounces.

Harry’s startled at first by the pressure of his thin lips against his own, but it’s really like riding a bike. They had kissed so much before Louis left that Harry easily falls back into the learned motions. Their lips slot together in a frantic movement, noses knocking in their efforts to set a proper angle. However nice the kiss is, he refuses to let Louis’ tongue into his mouth. He wants answers and he knows snogging will put those answers on hold. So he pulls back, Louis’ lips chasing after his own, to get those answers.

Their height difference isn’t much (despite Louis’ complaints), but he still has to tilt his head down to accommodate the difference. When he looks down now, his knees nearly give out. Louis’ mouth is bruised a deep red, his cheeks are flushed, his hair somewhat dishevelled, and his blue eyes are blown. “Lou,” he whispers.

Louis grunts, pulls Harry back by his hair, and licks into his mouth. His questions are thrown from his mind as Louis’ tongue gently explores his mouth. Yet the knowledge that he has to keep Louis here pounds from the back of his head. It’s this pounding that encourages him to curl his arms around Louis’ midriff to keep Louis against him in a firm hold. Louis doesn’t protest the thought, in fact, he tries to plaster himself as much as he can against Harry. He nibbles at Harry’s lips and pulls off to pant against Harry’s right cheek. “Let me suck you off.”

Oh.

They haven’t done anything too sexual before besides grinding. Blowjobs fall under sexual encounters. Oral sexual encounters, to be specific. So, Harry’s mouth falling open and body freezing is a natural response. Louis wiggles against Harry’s firm hold and raises his eyebrows at him. “Babe, you’re going to have to let me go.”

Harry can hear the entire penis population of the world boo and hiss at him when he says “No,” and tightens his hold. He promises his dick that he will make it up. Maybe get a new sex toy or something, but Harry is not letting this boy go again.

Louis’ eyes widen, but he doesn’t question it. He pulls Harry back in for another snog session, albeit, a more rough snogging that makes Harry’s lungs burn. In fact, he’s so focused on his breathing technique that it takes him a minute to realise that Louis’ hand has left his hair and is currently unzipping his trousers. He’d flush if his blood wasn’t traveling elsewhere.

Louis pulls away from his lips a second time and slides Harry’s trousers from his hips to his knees. “Thinking of letting me go soon?” he asks casually, hand palming the clothed cock.

Harry bites his bottom lip and winces at the teeth edging into his bruised and sensitive skin. The pain helps clear his mind. “No, not letting you go,” he says and then hisses when Louis applies more pressure in his rubbing.

Louis looks amused and irritated. He opens his mouth to say something, but closes it just as quickly. He stops palming and brings his hand up to his mouth and spits into it. He answers Harry’s questioning look by putting his moistened hand in Harry’s pants and strokes his semi. The friction is a bit uncomfortable, but the pleasure outweighs it, and Harry finds himself fully hard in Louis’ grip.

“This would be a lot easier if you didn’t have a death grip on me,” Louis grits out, eyes on where his hand and forearm are working Harry.

Harry doesn’t answer. He’s trying to keep his caveman noises in and he’s watching how concentrated Louis is in his movements. His eyebrows are furrowed and lips puckered in such a way that he seems unsure and worried in his movements. It’s...cute.

Louis catches his staring and frowns, a determined look in his eyes. He moves his hand with more confidence and eases the friction with pre-cum. Pleasure wrecks Harry. With each twist and stroke, Harry pulls Louis closer to him like a human teddy bear. Moans fall out of his mouth as he tries to match the twitches of Louis’ wrist with his own thrusts. Harry comes with his head buried in Louis’ neck and his hands fanning and clutching Louis’ back.

Louis waits for Harry to come down from his orgasm by whispering compliments and soothing Harry’s shaking body. Harry takes it all in and, as soon as he can, he whispers, “You left.”

Louis shushes him and pulls back enough to kiss his cheek.

“You left,” Harry repeats. He needs Louis to realise something he can’t quite put into words.

“I’m,” Louis sighs and ruffles Harry’s hair. “I’m not sure what to tell you, Haz.”

Harry releases him slowly and only enough to be able to properly look at him. He was wrong, Louis does not look like the same Louis he knew three months ago. This Louis looks scared and anxious. His hair is longer and curls out from the back of his neck. He has more stubble on his chin, too, but what he really notices now that his anger has subsided into sorrow are the dark circles under his eyes. No, he’s not the same.

Louis seems to notice the shift in his thoughts, because he tries to smile. “I’m here now. Let’s get you to bed.” He bends down to pull Harry’s trousers back up to his hip and pauses to stare at his one bootless foot. “Special socks.”

Harry blinks back from his thoughts and raises an eyebrow at Louis. He finally lets go of him fully and stretches the aching muscles in his arms. Special socks? Louis doesn’t wear any socks. “Sorry?” he questions.

“You’re wearing your special socks,” Louis repeats.

Oh, he wasn’t talking about his own sockless feet. Harry looks down to remind himself that, yes, he is wearing his fancy socks. No, he did not actually manage to get his second boot on when he answered the door. “Erm, yeah, I am.”

“Oh, okay.”

There is a strange pause before Louis nods his head to Harry’s bedroom and the two walk into his room.

Harry has recently become proud of his bedroom. He vacuums and dusts everyday, cleaning up the clutter of living a uni lifestyle. Sometimes on weekends he’ll wash his window. It’s rewarding to wake up naturally to bright sunlight. The curtains are closed tonight because it had been raining. He couldn’t stand looking out and seeing so many people get touched by the rain while he had to stay indoors to finish work. The rest of his room is pristine. Louis narrows his eyes at Harry’s made bed.

“Are you staying?” Harry asks because he’s a pathetic and hopeless individual. He’s certain his mother is going to never return his phone if she finds out about this. Harry should let Louis go back to his own flat and rest by himself. He’s an adult now.

Louis’ face softens and he nods.

“Okay,” Harry responds and grabs an extra set of trackies for him to wear.

They change their clothes facing away from each other. The movement of fabrics is loud. “I can go on the sofa--”

“Don’t be ridiculous. My bed’s big enough for two,” he cuts Louis off quickly and climbs into bed without looking at him. He’s afraid he’ll see pity. Harry’s tired of seeing pity.

Louis gets in after him and lays on his back. Harry turns over on his side and watches Louis’ eyes trace the patterns in the ceiling. Not for the first time, he wonders what Louis thinks of when he’s quiet like this.

This is a good opportunity to ask the questions. To beg where he went, but most importantly, why he left. Harry needs to know what he did or didn’t do. He needs to know if he should be blaming himself at all, because ignorance is not bliss. Ignorance hurts.

“So...you were wearing your special socks,” Louis says, ending Harry’s thoughts.

Why is he so caught up on these socks? “Yes,” he confirms warily.

“I like those socks,” Louis continues. He’s still staring at the ceiling intently.

“Me too.”

Pause.

“You don’t wear them alot.”

“Yeah, I don’t want to get holes in them. They cost Mum a small fortune.”

Another, longer pause.

“I only recall you wearing them a few times. Nice fabric. Good colour.”

Harry doesn’t comment this time. He waits for Louis to get to the point, trailing a finger down his sheets. If Louis is so fixated on these socks, why doesn’t he just buy his own pair?

Louis squirms and turns to face Harry. “I’ve only seen you wear those socks on our dates.”

Harry blinks. Oh. He was only mildly aware that he wore his fancy socks on dates. He often makes the selection quickly and while trying to race out the door. How Louis has acknowledged such a small detail on their dates is beyond his comprehension.

“Did you have a date tonight?” Louis continues quietly.

Harry fights with himself on a proper way to respond to this, but ends up repeating, “You left.”

Louis reaches his hand to touch Harry’s cheeks. He caresses the skin on his face, wiping the wrinkled look of confusion off Harry’s face. They stay like this for a while, Louis tracing the skin of Harry’s face and Harry letting him. This is another opportunity to question, but he finds himself not wanting to ruin the moment. Instead, he stares at how Louis’ eyes flicker and follow his hand.

“Hazza,” he whispers and pats Harry’s cheek before taking his hand back. He frowns for a bit before giving in and shuffling his limbs into Harry’s space. He curls up into Harry’s chest and breaths against Harry’s neck. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Harry finds himself saying. “Just...answer your phone or something, please.”

“I’ll try.”

“We’ll talk more about this in the morning.”

“Harry...be my boyfriend.”

Harry sits up quickly, throwing Louis off his chest in the fuss. “What?” he squeaks. He’s not sure if he heard that right.

Louis scrambles and rights himself. He’s twitching all over. “Will you be my boyfriend?” he asks again, less sure of himself.

It’s a beat of a moment that seems to last a lifetime. Harry thinks back to every shared look, kiss, touch. To every date. To their first date where Harry smiled so hard his dimples ached. Even before all that though, Harry remembers them stealing glances in the library. Their obvious flirting that made Niall gag and Zayn smile. The saturdays spent going anywhere and everywhere, just so Louis could say he “kissed Harry Styles right there and made several grannies flinch.”

Then, of course, Harry remembers his past three months.

Thoughts of moping in bed, missing meals, and snapping at his flatmates come creeping back. His crying every time it rained or wincing at couples on the street. He had to throw himself into cleaning and other mediocre tasks to keep himself busy. He remembers how everyone walked around him carefully because if they mentioned anything Louis-related, he’d fall apart again.

Despite these thoughts, Harry heard himself say, “Yes.”

Louis blinks up at him. “Sorry?”

“Yes, Lou. I’ll be your boyfriend,” Harry repeats with more enthusiasm.

Louis smiles his beautiful crinkled eyed smile and throws himself into Harry’s arms.

Harry laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> I allow you to leave a nasty, nasty comment below. Just make it horrible.
> 
> I have a tumblr, but I hardly go on so if you want the url anyway, let me know.
> 
> (If there is a certain Brad reading this: fuck you)


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